


Sleep Well Beast

by brideofquiet



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Captain America: The First Avenger, Happy Ending, Illnesses, M/M, Occult, Psychological Horror, Supernatural Elements, The Dove Is A Little Dead But Probably Still Edible, Transformation, Wartime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-28
Updated: 2017-10-28
Packaged: 2019-01-25 10:11:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12529000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brideofquiet/pseuds/brideofquiet
Summary: Even then, Steve knows Bucky's always kept secrets. He’s like the forest, in that way; familiar though it may come to be, there’s still parts of it that are unknowable. That’s the nature of the beast—of any beast.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AraniaArt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AraniaArt/gifts).



> This is my entry for the Stucky Scary Bang 2017. Thanks to [AraniaArt](http://archiveofourown.org/users/araniaart) for the inspiring prompt and lovely artwork, both of which will be included at the end of the work to avoid spoilers. Another thank you goes to my friend and beta [newsbypostcard](http://archiveofourown.org/users/newsbypostcard), who knows how to slice and dice me just right.

Steve doesn’t understand the forest. He’s used to walls—four of them, real ones, made of wood and plaster. Canvas doesn’t count. The walls he’d had had never been thick ones, sure, but they never trembled in the wind how a tent does. It’s liable to come down on him as he sleeps, the way the wind howls in these mountains.

Sometimes, if he squeezes his eyes shut, he can pretend to be home. The crickets—the streetcar clacking down Fulton Avenue. The chattering of birds—people on the streets, a song playing on the radio. The wind is still wind. The nearby creek is only his neighbor running the tap in the bathroom down the hall.

Sometimes, in the right light, if he squints just so, the tightly packed trees might even be buildings. He might be home.

There’s something to it he doesn’t understand. A mystery or magic he was never privy to—not a secret purposefully hidden, but something that’s just beyond his comprehension. Nature, all its wonders, every quiet thing in the dirt and trees that he’ll never know. The closest he ever got was Prospect Park, the zoo in the middle. Even then, though, even in the center of the park, you never forget that you’re in the city. You can always still hear it. You never forget where you are.

Here, surrounded by trees, tucked between mountains, it’s all too easy to feel untethered. Lost. It might even be enough to make a man go mad.

 

It’s nearly dark out when Morita douses the fire and everyone breaks away. The night’s too cold this high up in the mountains to stay up past dark if they don’t have to. Hell, the day’s too cold too. The rest of the Commandos head to their tents to hunker down, but Steve shrugs into his jacket and makes for the treeline. His body regulates heat the most efficiently. It’s only right that he take first watch—and Dugan doesn’t wear a watch, so he won’t know if Steve lets him sleep through half his shift.

Shoving his hands deep into his pockets, he sits on a fallen log. His breath puffs out in little clouds. The shield sits at his feet, and there’s a pistol in his holster, but it’s unlikely they’ll run into any trouble tonight. Their camp is too far out of the way, too deep into the woods. They’re as safe as they can be. Tomorrow, when they descend the mountain to ambush a small HYDRA transport division passing through the valley, will be a different story. For now, though, he keeps watch, because it’s the principle of the thing. Someone stays awake. Someone makes sure they’re safe.

Over the whistling wind, he barely hears the snap of a twig under a boot. It’s only thanks to his new army-regulation ears that he catches it. Hand on his shield, Steve stands and twists to find the source of the sound. 

It’s Bucky, shuffling away from his tent. 

Steve tracks him for a moment. He’s not wearing his thick wool coat. In fact, he’s only in olive drab pants and a white undershirt. He stumbles listlessly around the camp, clutching at himself, at his elbows and ribs and chest.

Earlier, Bucky hadn’t made it through a third of his dinner before getting up from their tight circle around the fire. His shoulder had brushed Steve’s as he stood.

“You okay, Bucky?” Steve had asked.

“Dizzy,” Bucky had answered. He’d jerked a thumb toward his tent. “Ought to go lie down, I think.”

Steve had let him go without a fuss, and so had the rest of the men. Bucky leaving his dinner unfinished meant a little more for the rest of them. They’d descended on his plate like wolves.

Watching him now, Steve wonders if he ought to have followed Bucky to his tent and made sure he was okay. He paces over to him. Bucky startles and shies away when Steve approaches. He looks dazed. There’s sweat beading on his forehead, dripping down his face, despite the chill in the air. Steve drops the shield and grabs Bucky by the arms to hold him steady.

Bucky flinches and tries to pull away, but Steve keeps his grip. His skin is flame-hot with fever. “Buck—hey, Bucky, can you look at me?”

Whipping his head around, Bucky’s gaze struggles to locate Steve’s face. His eyes are unfocused and cloudy, his nostrils flared wide.

“You don’t look so hot, pal,” Steve says. “Let’s get you back to your tent, alright?”

This time when Bucky pulls away, Steve’s fingers lose their purchase on his skin. Taking a few steps back, Bucky seems to regain some of his composure. “I’m fine,” he growls.

“What are you doing out here?”

“I—needed some air.”

“Well, you got it. Now go back to bed, you need to rest.” 

For a moment Steve thinks Bucky will refuse him, but then Bucky’s mouth twitches into a grimace. “That’s my line,” he says wryly.

Steve can’t help his smile at that. It is a strange role reversal. Bucky’d gotten truly sick twice, maybe three times in all the years they’d known each other; Steve was sick every other month, it felt like. 

But then he sees Bucky’s scowl back in place, and his smile fades. “Uh huh. And what would you say if it was me was out here in freezing temperatures in my underwear?”

“I’d say get your ass inside, Rogers.”

“Get your ass inside, then, Barnes.”

Bucky stares him down for a beat, his face gone dark in the fading light. Then, grumbling, he turns and stalks back toward his tent. Steve waits till Bucky has the flap all done up before he heads back to his post.

The sun descends over the mountains, the moon rising to replace it. The moon’s glow casts the forest into strange, sharp contrast—heavy shadows cutting up the light. The forest is loud tonight. Steve doesn’t feel that cold, but he shivers anyway. 

He hears Bucky in his tent, groaning and whining and panting. He must be really sick. Maybe he picked something up in London. Steve will ask Morita to look him over in the morning, make sure there’s no need for an emergency evac. Eventually the rustling from Bucky’s tent stops. Steve sighs and sags with relief that he finally fell asleep. 

Sometime in the middle of the night, Steve wakes Dugan to replace him. Crawling into his tent, he gives thanks for even this minimal shelter and tucks into his sleeping bag, boots and all. He lies there in the dark and tries to sleep, but it won’t come. The howl of the wind carries up the valley and screams through camp, piercing as a bullet. Steve turns over in his bag, like he might escape the sound if he repositions. Eventually the wind dies down, and sometime after that, he falls into dreamless sleep.

The morning dawns crisp and bright. Steve is the first out of his tent, unable to sleep more than he absolutely must. Dugan nods as he passes on the way to his own tent to rest a few minutes before beginning the day. Steve gets the fire stoked again, warming his fingers over the heat. The rest of the Commandos trickle out in the next fifteen minutes—all save one. As Dernier divides up their breakfast rations, Steve asks him to hold his portion while he goes to check on Bucky.

“Bucky?” Steve calls from outside the tent. “You awake?”

No response. Steve can hear him breathing through the canvas.

“I’m coming in,” he announces, even though he’s sure Bucky must still be asleep. The ties on the flap aren’t done, though Steve distinctly remembers watching Bucky fasten them. He pushes the flap aside. His gasp turns heads at the fire, so he quickly ducks inside and pulls the flap closed behind him.

Bucky’s asleep alright—or passed out, maybe. He lies on top of his sleeping bag, spread-eagled and bare-assed. He must have shucked his clothes in the middle of the night, too hot with fever, and climbed out of his bag. The whole tent smells awful, sweat and something else ripe, like dirt.  

Steve crouches down by Bucky’s side. His back rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths. With a gentle hand, Steve reaches out to touch his shoulder. His fever’s broken, at least. His face is half-obscured, pressed into the sleeping bag, but Steve can see his drawn brow, his pinched mouth. Bucky twitches under Steve’s hand.

“Bucky,” Steve whispers. He hates to wake him, but he wants to get some fluids in him at least. “Bucky, can you hear me?”

He shakes Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky grunts and sighs, then snaps awake with a shudder, sitting upright and skittering away from Steve till his back is flush with the tent wall.

Steve holds his hands up, placating. “Just me.”

Crouched in the corner, Bucky watches him with bloodshot, dilated eyes for a long minute. As his breath slows, he seems to come back to himself. His pupils narrow. He sinks down till he’s seated. With a ragged sigh, he puts a palm to his temple and rubs. It’s only then that Steve notices how dirty his hands are—his feet, too, like he’d been out digging in the dirt.

“How are you feeling this morning?” Steve asks.

“Better,” Bucky rasps.

“Really?”

“Feel a bit like I’ve been taken apart and stitched back together—but yeah, honest, I’m alright.” He levels Steve with a look. “Some people know better than to lie about that.”

It occurs to Steve then, as Bucky peers at him across the tent, that this is the first time he’s seen Bucky naked in—how long has it been? He ducks his head, unsure what to do with that realization. There’s not much he can do, out here. “Would you like some water?” he asks.

“Yeah, I’ll come get it myself,” Bucky says. Steve starts to protest, but Bucky holds up a hand. “Stop your squabbling, Steve, I’m fine. Plus, I ain’t missing another meal even if I was puking my insides out. I could eat a horse.”

Steve huffs. “Alright.”

“Now scoot so I can get dressed. Big day today.”

Steve gives him his space; there are other matters that need his attention. Despite that, he spends most of the morning worrying about Bucky being able to do his part that day, sick as he’d been. He doesn’t voice his concern, but he does keep as close an eye on Bucky as he can. And didn’t that stink of familiarity. Steve will never admit to it or apologize, but he thinks he understands the exasperated sighs from Bucky's direction that have been the backing track to his life.

But the mission goes well goes well, better; it goes damn near perfectly. Bucky is as reliable in the field as he ever was in Brooklyn alleyways. Steve ought to have known he would be. He may look haggard—which of them don’t?—but he hits each of his marks without trouble. Thanks to Bucky picking off HYDRA’s scouts, they dismantle the group in a matter of minutes. 

As soon as they make the rendezvous point and climb into the trucks, Bucky passes out on a bench. This time, Steve lets him sleep.

 

Bucky has gone quiet again. He does that now. He did it before, too, sometimes—went reticent and stony-faced. It was never for long though, only long enough for Steve to pry it out of him and shake him loose again. That’s what they do for one another: knock the other out of their own heads when they would get stuck inside. Keep each other on solid ground. 

The plane rattles as it flies them away from London, back toward the front and the forest. Steve can’t get Bucky to look at him.

They sit across from one another, strapped into their seats. Bucky’s got a knife in his lap; he’s bent over it, polishing the blade till his eyes gleam in its reflection. Steve leans forward, clears his throat, and he sees Bucky’s eyes flicker. But still he doesn’t look up. Sighing, Steve sits back. He doesn’t have anything to say anyway. It doesn’t matter. He just wanted to talk to him for a minute. 

They do talk, sometimes. When they do, it feels almost normal; if he’s sitting down and Bucky’s standing, it could pass for it. Bucky still ribs him, smiles in that cocksure way, and reminds Steve why he’s here at all. As gratified as he is to have finally made it to the fight, some days it's harder than others to remember why he wanted to. When their rations are running low, when they get backed into a wall by the enemy, when the wind’s howling so bad they can’t even stoke a fire to heat up dinner—all he has to do to remember why it’s worth it is find Bucky’s face among his men. 

He’ll meet his eye, give Steve a nod like he knows, then turn back to what he was doing. Steve’s chest grows warm with purpose every time. He takes a deep breath, and he’s fine again.

Only right now, Bucky won’t look at him.

His face is ashen, the circles under his eyes heavy as a bruise. His hair is uncharacteristically disheveled, like he hadn’t bothered to fix it this morning. That’s strange, considering they’d had real beds to sleep in last night and hot showers this morning courtesy of the SSR’s London headquarters. Steve wants to ask him what’s wrong, if he’s feeling sick again, but the plane’s too loud for private conversation. With Falsworth on his right and Dum Dum to his left, if Steve says anything to Bucky, they’ll both overhear. If it’s anything half as bad as it looks, Bucky won’t talk in front of them. Steve’s about the only person he ever let know when something was wrong.

Even then, Steve knows Bucky's always kept secrets. He’s like the forest, in that way; familiar though it may come to be, there’s still parts of it that are unknowable. That’s the nature of the beast—of any beast. That doesn’t stop Steve from wanting to know.

He sticks his foot out across the aisle and taps Bucky’s ankle. Bucky shifts and stares at Steve’s boot. Steve watches his scowl soften around the edges, his grip on the knife loosen. Bucky doesn’t look up, but he nudges Steve’s ankle back. 

That’s enough enough for now. Steve wiggles his foot before withdrawing it. Bucky doesn’t smile, but his mouth twitches like he thought about it. Steve settles back into his seat for the rest of the flight.

 

The war rages on. The days blur together, mission after mission. There's always something to do or plan or report. The SSR has them all over the place; they hardly get a day to rest. For Steve, that’s just fine. He’s learned he can go nearly seventy-two hours without sleep if he truly has to. The rest of his men can’t keep pace. He doesn’t ask them to. Bucky tries anyway.

He’s still sick. Not all the time, but often enough that Steve thinks it might be something chronic. No one else seems to notice. Bucky gets better about hiding it, even from Steve, and that must be a lesson for him. Steve remembers, as a child, that he’d call for his mother anytime he had an ache or pain. As he got older, when he realized they weren’t going away, he shut up about it. He didn’t want to be coddled anymore.

So he lets Bucky hide, but he still keeps watch. As much as he can, anyway. War is a busy time.

There’s not much time for talk that doesn’t involve logistics and tactics, nowadays. In some respects, this is a relief to Steve. Once, he caught Bucky staring at him across a copse of trees like he was something foreign. Like maybe Bucky didn’t recognize him anymore. It doesn’t happen again, but he can’t shake the image: Bucky’s head cocked to the side, eyes narrowed. His left hand hung by his side like he’d forgotten what he was reaching for. Something in the set of his mouth looked like grief.

When he saw Steve looking, he turned sharply away.

And what would Steve think, if he woke up one morning to a Bucky so unlike the one he knows? The same—he’s the same, inside—but this isn’t the body Bucky knows. He’s never touched this body, felt the skin that’s always warm now, used his hands to map out all its peaks and valleys. It’s unfamiliar. Steve is unfamiliar to him.

Can he really blame Bucky for looking at him like he’s a monster?

 

He feels like a monster, some days. What was it he’d said to Erskine when they’d first met?

_ I don’t want to kill anyone. _

He’d been terribly naive. Look at him now, rinsing blood from his socks in the freezing river. He’s washed blood out of plenty of his clothes before. It always feels uniquely shameful, even when he won, even when it’s not his blood—perhaps especially then. To have to scrub someone else’s blood from his  _ socks, _ of all things. 

He can’t remember how, exactly, it got there. He can’t remember the faces of any of the men he’d killed today.

_ That’s war, _ someone might say. He might say it. He tells it to himself.

The sharp, metallic smell still makes his stomach turn. He’ll never get this bloodstain out.

 

They’ve been in the same stretch of woods for three days when Steve decides he’s lost it. He has to have. Bucky used to box him around the ears when they were kids, he remembers. “You’ve gone and lost it this time, Stevie,” he’d say, as if it were the first time he’d said it, every time. Steve can’t recall what he ever did to deserve a rebuke like that; he can certainly imagine, but he can’t remember specifics.

Right now, he wishes Bucky would come striding out of his tent, find Steve at his post, and cuff him on the back of the head. He needs someone to remind him where he is. Because that’s the effect it had: Bucky telling him he’d lost it helped him find it, whatever  _ it _ was. His train of thought. His yo-yo. His mind.

There’s no other explanation for the wolf sitting across from him. 

_ You’ve gone and lost it this time, Stevie. _

He’d taken second watch tonight. Jones had woken him up past midnight to switch. It’s cold out, same as every other night. The clouds threaten snow, hanging low in the sky and blotting out the moonlight. Steve had walked a slow circle around the camp perimeter a few times to wake himself up, then settled in at the watch post. He hadn’t heard a sound, not a snapping twig or a rustle of leaves, when suddenly, there it was.

And there it still is. The wolf had walked out of the woods, laid eyes on Steve, and cocked its head to the side to watch him. Steve went still as the tree at his back. Objectively, he knows he could probably fight the wolf off. But he’s never seen a wolf before. Surely it’s not normal for one to sit down ten feet away from someone as if across a dinner table. Is it?

That’s what it had done. That’s what it’s still doing.

The wolf keeps its gaze trained on Steve, and Steve watches back. It seems docile enough, but it’s still a wild animal. Are wolves supposed to be that big? He isn’t sure. What does it want from him? That, he’s not sure of either. Maybe it can smell their food. They’d just had C-rations for dinner. Steve isn’t sure how that could smell appetizing even to a dog.

Wolf. Not dog. 

He’s not scared, oddly, even as the wolf shifts on its haunches, as though threatening to get up. If it was going to come any closer, it would have by now. It’s unnerving, though, the way it doesn’t look away from him. It has his skin prickling with goosebumps that have nothing to do with the cold. In the dark, its eyes are two glowing pinpricks of light. Hypnotizing, almost. Blue. Steve doesn’t know that he could look away even if he wanted to.

Then, slowly, the wolf stands again.

Steve expects it will leave now. If something had kept its interest so long, its interest now was fading. Only it doesn’t turn, or even take its eyes off him; instead, it paces forward on long limbs. Steve’s heart thumps heavier, but still it doesn’t feel like fear as the wolf approaches him. The beast turns in a neat circle, then sits beside him, watching the forest.

It's is so close to him now, Steve can feel the heat of its body. The tips of its long, wiry fur would brush the back of his hand if he shifted just slightly. He has to stop himself from reaching out to touch it.

They sit in silence, guarding the camp together, for a long time. An hour, maybe longer. It’s hard to tell.

Sometime just before dawn, the wolf gives a low whine. Steve glances sideways to see it looking up to the sky, where the clouds have finally parted to reveal the moon. It never did snow. The wolf whines again.

“You’re a cliche, you know that?” Steve whispers to it.

The wolf gives him a sharp look.

Steve shrugs. “I’m just saying.”

The wolf rises and trots off into the trees without so much as a backward glance. Did it—it didn’t understand him, did it? No. Just the forest playing tricks on him again. He’s been out here for too long. Next week, they return to London for a few days of rest. They all need it.

Steve waits through the sunrise, its warm yellow light suffusing through the tree branches.  Everything feels a little less strange in the daylight—or stranger still, maybe, the night suddenly unbelievable. 

Later, he and Bucky are sitting at the fold-out table, going over some maps. He doesn’t know what makes him say it—how sick he is of only talking trajectories, or the way Bucky’s not quite looking at him again. Either one. Both. Neither. 

“I saw a wolf in the woods last night.”

Bucky frowns down at the map, his index finger smoothing out a crease. There’s dirt under the nail. “You what now?”

“Saw a wolf. In the woods. Last night.”

“Huh.”

“It sat right next to me half my watch.”

That makes Bucky glance up. His face is drawn with exhaustion—he’d gone to bed feeling poorly again—but curiosity twitches at his brow. “It did, did it?”

“Swear.”

Bucky huffs what might be a laugh. “You’ve gone and lost it again, Steve.”

He stretches forward and swipes the compass out of Steve’s hand. Their fingertips brush. Bucky returns to the map. Steve nods to himself, watching Bucky trace pathways across the wrinkled paper. He supposes it doesn’t matter so much if it was real or not.

 

London gives them a reprieve. Steve thinks it’s something about the rhythm of a city—a different beat, the melody’s off, but it’s still a city. The part of town the SSR has them bunked in is quiet, but there’s still such a unique comfort to opening the door of the little row house to reveal a paved street. Steve’s heart lifts to see other people walking up the path, going about their business, business that isn’t dirty or bloody at all. There’s a life away from the front, outside the forest.

He forgets sometimes. He forgets that there’s supposed to be something to come back to—that that’s the whole point of it all, to make sure that there is a place. It’s easy to get wrapped up in the rhythm of battle. There are other songs.  

Hell, there’s one playing on the radio from the kitchen right now. The door shuts with a click behind him as he turns and walks up the hall. He recognizes the tune, but can’t place the name. He always was awful with song titles. 

The kitchen is empty. The leaky tap drips into the basin. Steve lingers at the threshold, frowning.

A throat clearing startles him. He turns sharply to look through the doorway into the dining room. Sitting at the table with the lights off, there's Bucky, staring at him over a hand of cards. There's a game of solitaire laid out before him.

“Hey,” Steve croaks.

Bucky gives him a small, twisting smile. “You worried I might bite?”

“No.” Steve shuffles forward into the dining room. He pauses behind a chair, laying his hand over the back. 

“Well, sit down.” Bucky snorts. “I’m almost done with this deck, then we’ll play something.”

Steve takes the seat across from him and folds his hands in his lap. Tongue between his teeth, Bucky concentrates on the game board. It only takes him a few more minutes to finish it out. When he does, he leans back in his chair, that same easy smile he always wears when he wins something. Steve returns it.

As Bucky picks up the cards to shuffle them, Steve asks, “Should we ask if anyone else wants to join?”

“No one to ask.” Bucky starts to deal out their hands. “Everyone else went out while you were napping. Something about needing a drink.”

“Oh.” Steve glances out the window. The sun will be setting soon. “Why didn’t you go?”

“Didn’t feel like it.”

“Okay.”

“Little old me gonna be enough for you?”

Steve sets his elbows on the table. “Always are, Buck.”

Bucky looks up from his hand, a crease forming in his brow. He nods, slowly. “Yeah.”

They play quietly for a few minutes, the radio filtering in from the kitchen. This is nice—familiar, even if the room’s too big and the chairs are too comfortable for it to really feel like home. How often do they get to be alone like this, now? When’s the last time they sat across the table from one another over something other than maps or meals?

Steve slides his socked foot across the hardwood. Gingerly, he taps his toes against the laces of Bucky’s boot. Bucky’s mouth twitches over the table; under it, he nudges Steve’s ankle, then pulls away.

“Bucky,” Steve starts. He stops. He tries again. “Bucky, you…”

“You got something to ask me, Steve?”

Steve bites his lip.

“I suppose you ought to ask it, then, before I turn to dust over here.”

Steve lets out a slow breath, deflating. “You got any threes?”

“Go fish.”

 

Thick fog hangs low on the path as they make their way along a dirt road in occupied France. The back of the truck is quiet this morning. No one talks, or even tries. It’s been a slow, arduous crawl along the outskirts of enemy lines. Now that they’re finally nearing their target, they don’t bother to waste energy with idle chatter. 

Bucky looks like he doesn’t have the energy to spare anyway. He sits next to Steve, slumped down on the bench. Steve can see him nodding off, his eyes slipping closed and then flashing open again. He would tell Bucky,  _ Sleep on my shoulder. _ He would ask,  _ Is it too different? Do you miss the bone digging into your cheek? _

He would, but it’s too quiet. Everyone would hear. So he runs through the plan in his head again, and if he shifts so his arm presses against Bucky’s, he’ll blame the uneven road. 

They set up camp that evening, pitching tents and leaving everything else packed. At dawn, they’ll stow it all away again, and move out. There’s nothing particularly difficult about this mission. It ought to go off without a hitch. Steve falls asleep to the sound of the wind rustling through the trees.

In the night, something wakes him. He’s not sure what—the sound is gone before he’s awake enough to hear it. But then it comes again: a sniffling sound, like an animal.

Steve stays still and quiet. The sound comes closer.

Soon it’s right near him, right outside his tent, just on the other side of the canvas. He holds his breath as the animal noses at the wall. There’s a low whine, and it sounds like—not a dog. There aren’t dogs in the middle of the forest. Then, inexplicably, Steve hears the sound of water pouring. By the time his sleep-addled brain puts it together, the animal is already retreating, paws thumping on the soft ground.

Did it just—but  _ why? _ Steve scrubs a hand over his face, trying to be sure he’s not dreaming. That’s the second time now, that a wolf—he’s presuming it was a wolf—has come near him. But why would it … does he smell? Is it the serum, somehow making him seem like one of them? He wants to wake Bucky up, ask his opinion—but what’s he supposed to say?  _ Remember when I hung out with that wolf? Well, you’ll never guess what’s happened now!  _

No one would believe him. He’s not sure he believes it; probably just an overtired mind making things up again. Rolling onto his side, he goes back to sleep.

 

Steve wakes again just before dawn to dress and pack his things away. As he emerges from his tent, the others are doing the same. All save one.

“Barnes overslept again,” Dugan calls to him from the truck. “And you all call  _ me  _ a bear.”

Frowning, Steve picks his way to the edge of camp to Bucky’s tent. He’s left the flaps undone again. 

“Rise and shine, Bucky,” Steve says.

No response. With a sigh, Steve pulls the flap back and sticks his head inside. There he is, sprawled facedown on the ground, his bag half-slung overtop of himself. One bare leg sticks out, bent at the knee. Not even socks. Christ, no small wonder he’s sick all the time, sleeping like that with the flap open to the elements. 

“Bucky,” Steve repeats, reaching in to pinch Bucky’s big toe. Bucky jerks his foot away, but doesn’t wake. With a sigh, Steve crawls into the tent on hands and knees. He doesn’t have time to be gentle this morning. He prods Bucky in the shoulder. “Wake up, pal. Time to go.”

Bucky shifts. His eyes blinking owlishly open, he turns his face toward Steve.

_ “Shit,” _ Steve gasps.

Bucky hums and smacks his lips. As he does, the dried blood smeared across his face cracks and flakes.

Steve grabs him by the shoulders and hauls him up into a sitting position. Bucky sputters and protests in a morning-rough voice, slapping Steve’s hands away from his body. He sits on his own, dragging the bag over himself to cover his nakedness. But not before Steve sees how the blood has dripped down his neck, onto his chest, in wide rust-colored streaks.

“What the hell  _ happened?” _ Steve asks. He sinks back to sit on his heels.

“What?”

“You’re covered in blood, Bucky.”

“I’m …” Bucky glances down at his chest. The blood has congealed in the smattering of hair there. He runs a hand across the skin, up his neck and to his face. Brown-red flakes cover his hand when he pulls it away. His brow furrows. “Oh.”

“Oh?”

“I think I might’ve had a nose bleed.”

“A  _ nose— _ Bucky, that’s a lot of blood.”

Bucky twists, fumbling for a spare shirt and his canteen. His breath comes quick and shallow, and his hands tremble as he tries to undo the cap. He can’t quite manage it.

Steve reaches forward. “Let me.”

“I’m fine—”

_ “Let _ me.”

“Don’t you  _ touch _ me, I swear to God—”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Bucky, you’re shaking like a leaf. Please.”

Bucky lifts his head, bloodshot eyes boring into Steve’s. Steve holds out his hand more insistently. Bucky sets his jaw, then shoves the canteen at Steve. Steve grabs the spare shirt off the ground and douses it with water. Then, slowly, he shifts forward onto his knees. He keeps hold of Bucky’s gaze as he raises the fabric to his face. This would be easier with warm water, but it’s freezing out, the chill in the air making goosebumps prickle on his arms. 

He presses the wet cloth to Bucky’s cheek. As he wipes the blood away, Bucky’s eyes slide closed. That divot between his brows remains as Steve gingerly wipes his jaw, his cheek where the blood had pooled, his nose, his lips. He lingers there, making sure his mouth is clean, before reaching for more water. The skin of Bucky’s neck and chest is warm beneath Steve’s hands. He can feel Bucky’s pulse thumping erratically. His eyes stay closed, his body stubbornly still under Steve’s touch.

“All done,” Steve whispers. He sets the soiled shirt aside and swallows down nausea that has nothing to do with the blood.

Bucky doesn’t open his eyes.

“Bucky?”

When Steve reaches out again, Bucky doesn’t move away or even flinch. His eyes stay closed, but he lets Steve brush knuckles over his cheek, smooth hair back from his temple. Steve cups his jaw. He holds his hand there, each breath heavy in his chest, and waits. Slowly, Bucky lifts his hand to cover Steve’s. 

“Bucky,” Steve says, “are you okay?”

“Don’t ask me that.”

“Should you—” He hauls in a breath. “Do you think we ought to send you home? You’ve been si—”

“Don’t be such a fucking hypocrite, Steve.”

“Then what am I supposed to do? What do you expect me to do?”

In the dim light of the tent, Bucky’s eyes stand out, the brightest blue. The color sends a shock crackling through Steve’s nerves. He leans in, close enough that he can smell the sharp tang of blood on Bucky’s skin. Surely, if he kissed him, he would taste it. He’s not sure he would mind. 

Bucky’s thumb brushes against his wrist, a soft encouragement. He's close enough to feel Bucky’s breath against his lips. Close enough to see his skin, its pores and imperfections, the rough stubble at his jaw. Just another inch—

“Cap! You fall asleep in there too?”

Bucky twists out of his grip, and Steve lets him go. As Bucky feels at the tent’s edge for his pants, Steve presses a hand to his own temple.

“Be out in a minute, Jones,” he calls back. 

Bucky gets up, he acts fine, but he doesn’t look at Steve again the rest of the morning.

 

“Uh, Cap…” Morita’s voice crackles over the radio.

“What? Is something wrong?”

“You’re just … you have to come see this yourself.”

“I’m gonna need more information than that, Morita. You’re supposed to be scouting.”

“Ain’t nothing up here to scout, Cap. Everyone’s dead.”

He takes the bike out ahead of the rest of them, hurrying to the camp Morita and Falsworth were scouting. When he cuts the engine, the silence in the forest is deafening. No wind, no morning birds singing their songs—nothing. 

Twenty paces to the road’s right, there is a camp. A trail of carnage leads Steve straight to it.

When Steve was a child, his neighbor across the hall had a terrier. The dog’s name was Tilda; Mrs. Fraser would let Steve play with her on her living room rug while Steve’s mother was at work. He loved that dog—her wiry coat, the way she seemed to grin at him, her boundless energy. She made him sneeze a lot, and his eyes always itched when he went home, but that was okay.

Once, when he was about four years old, he was waiting in the hall for his mother. She’d ducked back inside to grab his gloves before they went to the park. Mrs. Fraser opened the door. Steve giggled when Tilda poked her head around her ankles. Tilda’s eyes lit on something at the end of the hall; her lip curled back to reveal sharp teeth. Steve followed her gaze to see a rat scuttling along the baseboards, toward the staircase. 

Tilda tore past her owner and down the hall. Her growl, so cheerful when Steve played with her, was deep and guttural. In an instant, she was on the rat. It screamed as she took its neck between her teeth and shook, her whole body shaking too. A crack like a branch snapping. The rat went still. Tilda dropped it, nosing at its body. The hair around her mouth was red with blood.

Steve doesn’t remember his mother pulling him back inside. Next thing he knew, he was on the kitchen counter, her hands on his back, holding him against her.

“Shh, Steve, it’s alright.”

Did he cry? Maybe. He’d been a child.

That was the first time he’d seen something so violent. The first time he’d seen blood that didn’t come out of his own nose.

“Why’d Tilda do that, Ma?”

“That’s her job, sweetheart,” his mother said. She stroked his hair. “She’s a terrier. A rat dog. That’s what they do. Same as how I’m a nurse, and I have to poke people with needles. It’s just part of what I do.”

“It’s her job?”

“Yes. We don’t want rats in the building. She was just protecting us from it.”

“Rats are bad.”

“That’s right.”

That was the first time Steve understood that sometimes violence is necessary—that it can have a purpose. He would learn more about that later. He understood something else, too, as his mother wiped away his tears: sometimes those you love are capable of deeds greater and more terrible than you would think to imagine. He learned that doesn’t mean you should love them any less; they’re only doing what they were meant to do. What’s in their nature.

He thinks about Tilda shaking the life out of that rat as he picks his way between the bodies. Some are mostly intact; more have been rent apart. All in the same uniform, it’s difficult to tell which limb belongs to which corpse. It’s difficult to tell how many bodies there even are. Ten? Twenty? The blood has turned the trail to mud.

Morita and Falsworth stand in the middle of the camp. It’s not so bad here; most of the soldiers had made it to the trail, though it seems none made it much farther than that. The coals of a fire still smolder in a ring of rocks.

“Where’s everyone else?” Morita asks.

“Behind me.” Just then, the truck rumbles up the road.

They wait in silence as the rest of the men trickle up the trail and into the clearing.

_ “Mon Dieu,” _ Dernier says.

Dugan is uncharacteristically quiet, mouth hanging open. He scrapes his boot against the ground, wiping away the blood smeared across the toe. It’s odd; none of them are strangers to violence. They’ve seen worse—caused worse, even.  It shouldn’t be so unnerving.

Maybe it’s something to do with how none of the victims had even drawn their weapons. They seemed to have just run. What could scare trained soldiers so badly that they would forget to even draw their guns? That they would tuck tail and flee?

“Who did this?” Jones asks.

Steve meets his eye. “I don’t know. Morita, you hear anything on the radio? Anyone nearby?”

“Nobody.”

“Try again. Let’s search the camp, see if we can find anything worth finding.”

Though they still look uneasy, that at least sets the men into motion. They seem grateful to have something to do. Morita sits down to fiddle with the radio while the other four pilfer through the Germans’ belongings.

Bucky stands at the edge of the clearing with his hands on his gun. His face is so pale, bloodless as the bodies on the ground. Steve swallows down the strange lump in his throat and approaches him.

“I’m a little shook up,” Steve admits.

Bucky’s breath hitches, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Who do you think might’ve done this?” Steve asks.

“What.”

“Buck?”

“You should be asking what,” Bucky says, eyes tight. “Not who. A person didn’t do this.”

“What do you mean?”

But Bucky is already walking stiffly away from him toward the others. Steve glances over his shoulder at the bloody destruction behind him. He thinks, inexplicably, of the blood on Bucky’s mouth. A nosebleed, he’d said. Steve can’t remember him ever having a nosebleed back home. Maybe it’s the altitude.


	2. Chapter 2

He keeps forgetting he doesn’t have a room to himself here. Or maybe it’s not forgetting so much as—he’s surprised, each time he opens the door, and sees Bucky propped up on one of the twin beds or leaning against the windowsill. Steve half-expects him to disappear when he looks away, as if Bucky were some optical illusion, a construction of his imagination.

He might as well be, at this point. It’s hard to remember that they were ever any different than this.

No, that isn’t true. It’s not hard to remember it at all.

Bucky doesn’t so much as blink when Steve enters the room. He turns a page of the worn paperback in his hands.

“Dinner’s up,” Steve says softly. He sheds his jacket and hangs it over a bedpost. It’s nice to be somewhere warm again, at least.

“Not hungry.” Paper slides over paper.

“Buck, come on.”

“What part of ‘not hungry’ do you need me to repeat?”

“All of it, because it don’t make a lick of sense. You haven’t eaten all day. You must be starving.”

“You been watching me all day? How do you know I haven’t eaten, huh?”

Steve’s cheeks color, from guilt or anger—both. “It’s a small house.”

“Just go eat, Steve. Leave me alone.”

“Are you—” _Feeling okay? Pushing me away again?_ He stops, drags in a breath through his nose, stares at the floorboards. A page turns. His chest aches. He wishes he didn’t have to push—that he didn’t want to, that he could just leave well enough alone. But that’s what he always done. He pushes, and Bucky shoves him back, and it goes on like that till eventually one of them gives. They’ve been that way long before the day Steve pushed him up against that wall, the day they both gave in to each other.

Only now, when Steve pushes, it’s against a Bucky that’s gone solid as stone. There’s no give to him anymore, and nothing that makes Steve think there might be soon. Like grasping for something just out of reach, he only sends Bucky further away the harder he tries.

It’s infuriating.

He dents the doorknob on his way down to dinner.

 

The sun has started to set when he lumbers back up the stairs. He pauses outside the door, listening for Bucky’s breathing, trying to gauge if he’s asleep or not. He doesn’t hear anything; maybe he’s in the bathroom down the hall. Could be that he’d switched rooms entirely. That wouldn’t surprise Steve. He pushes inside.

There’s Bucky’s uniform, folded up neatly on top of the bedspread. His shoes sit at the bed’s foot. Bathroom, then—washing up. Steve isn’t sure whether to feel relieved about that. He grabs his paperback off the nightstand and perches on the windowsill to read in the fading light.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spots something: a figure slinking through the gate in the low stone wall that surrounds the country house. It retreats to the edge of the forest and disappears into the murk. Steve snaps the book shut. What the hell is Bucky doing?

Steve yanks back the curtain to peer into the fading light. His heart lurches. He knows he shouldn’t follow him.

Bucky had said to him, “Don’t try to follow me. You can’t.”

“Says who?” Steve had grabbed the papers out of his hand, squinted at them under the light of his work lamp.

“I’m going. You’re staying. That’s all there is to it.”

At the time, Steve had griped and huffed and then held onto him. Like if he held on tight enough, they’d have no choice—Steve would have to come too. Of course, it hadn’t happened that way. Bucky had shipped out without him, and he’d been left with nothing but an empty apartment and a chip on his shoulder.

He found a way to follow him eventually. He always knew he would. He’d told Bucky as much, that night. Bucky hadn’t believed him—in him. That may have been the first time.

But he’d done it, hadn’t he? He’d followed him like he said he would.

Why should he stop now?

Something’s wrong. He’s let sentimentality hold him back from dealing with it long enough. It’s his job as this unit’s commanding officer to figure out what and fix it.  He focuses on that directive as he slips into his shoes and out the door.

The path leads out the back garden and into the forest. The trees here are tall and thin, casting spindly shadows that crosshatch the ground. Steve pauses at wood’s edge. The trail vanishes into thick darkness. If he weren’t already worried about not catching up to Bucky, he would double back for a flashlight.

He forges forward. Eyes on the ground, it isn’t hard to pick his way over the well-traveled path. The darkness only seems to solidify around him, encroaching like something alive. He walks faster; his heart beat is the loudest thing in his ears.

Abruptly, the trees clear. He wonders that he didn’t see the light ahead of him. One moment it’s dark—next he’s bathed in yellow-orange light as the sun fades. A circular clearing cuts a hole in the middle of the forest. There’s an old, disused well in the middle.

Bucky sits on the ground with his back to it. His eyes are closed. He’s dressed only in his underclothes, his feet bare. The light slanting between the trees dapples his face with gold.

Steve’s breath catches at the sight. He takes an involuntary step forward, drawn to him. A twig snaps under his boot heels.

Bucky’s eyes flash open. For a moment, he seems dazed, his face blank. Then he blinks, gaze focusing, and his whole body stiffens.

_“Steve?”_

“What are you doing out here, Bucky?” When Steve starts to approach, Bucky slams backward against the well, feet scrabbling in the dirt.

“Don’t!” Bucky shouts. “Stay there! Go away!”

“Well, that’s contradictory.”

“I mean it. Not another step.”

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“Why the hell did you follow me?”

“Because you—” Steve closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. When he looks up again, Bucky has put the well between them, crouching behind the far wall. “Because you keep doing that. Because you don’t _talk to me_ anymore, and I can’t stand it another second.”

“Steve, go back to the house,” Bucky says. He’s not looking at Steve. His eyes are on the sky, purple with dusk now.

“Dammit, Buck, can you—can’t you even look at me? I swear to God, it’s me in here, sugar. I’m not changed so much. You’d know that if you’d only let me—”

“Steve, shit, I don’t ha—” A tremor shakes Bucky’s body. He snaps his mouth shut and grips the stone lip of the well.

“And that, too—you’re _sick,_ Bucky, all the time now. It’s tearing me up watching you like this. Can’t I do something for you? Won’t you let me do anything to help you?”

Steve’s at the well now; he’d made it across the clearing while Bucky had his eyes closed. This close, Steve can see him trembling head to foot, his muscles twitching and—shifting, oddly, beneath his skin.

“Bucky?”

His eyes open, and the pupils have obliterated all but the slimmest ring of blue. Bucky stares him down, breath ragged, mouth hanging open. Then his lips curl away from his teeth, and he _snarls._ Steve slips backward a step. Bucky begins to circle around the well, one hand still gripping the stone. He doesn’t seem able to stand on his own.

“Bucky,” Steve says slowly.

 _“Leave.”_ It sounds more like a growl than a word.

Steve stumbles away from the well. The sky fades from purple to inky black. The clouds shift to reveal the moon, a perfect circle of light. Its brightness throws stark, heavy shadows against the ground.

Steve’s feet catch on a rock and he tumbles backward, landing with a thump. From the ground, his eyes find Bucky’s shadow. Its dark shape warps at the edges. Steve follows it to see Bucky clinging to the well now, collapsed against it. His forehead presses against the stone, and his lungs heave with labored breaths.

Steve starts to get up, to go to him. If he’s having some kind of fit, then—

The first crack sends him, startled, back to the ground.

It sounds like—a tree branch snapping—something _—crack._

A muffled noise escapes Bucky. Steve zeroes in on him again, shifts so he can crawl toward him. The sound of the branch breaking reverberates in his ears, echoing off something or maybe it’s just in his head. Something about it sounds sinister, makes the hair on the back of his neck rise. Bucky whines, long and low, like it’s bothering him too.

Closer now, Steve’s eyes focus in the dark. _Crack._

Bucky’s shoulder shifts and realigns itself under his skin. He wails.

“Bucky!” Steve shouts.

Only in another few seconds, it isn’t Bucky he’s looking at at all. His bones break and reshape themselves, his whole body turning over on itself till Steve can’t recognize the shape of him at all. Steve blinks, rubs at his eyes, scrambles backward across the dirt when nothing changes. Something on the ground cuts his palm, but he doesn’t notice. He doesn’t notice he’s holding his breath either. There are shreds of clothing on the ground—did Bucky disappear? Where? Where’s he gone?

Then, suddenly, the clearing falls quiet again. A beat of silence, then the crickets pick up.

The wolf lifts its head. Its glowing eyes meet Steve’s. For a moment, Steve stares wonderingly at it, because it seems like the same wolf he'd seen months ago, only this isn’t the same place—not even the same _country—_

It slots together in his head clumsily, like an unskilled hand driving a nail. The shock feels that way, too—a puncture.

The wolf’s eyes narrow, and its lip lifts to unveil a row of sharp teeth. Steve can feel the growl like its shaking his own bones, like he’s shifting too. He barely has time to catch his breath before the wolf advances on him.

Steve doesn’t think. Doesn’t think, just clambers up again and hurtles toward the treeline. The wolf is on his heels, careening after him through the forest. Teeth snap at his heels, its rumbling snarl louder than the sound of Steve’s boots pounding against the ground. Brambles catch at his pant legs, tearing them, swatting his skin till he’s bloodied. The pain doesn’t register. His lungs don’t feel the burn of exertion anymore. He keeps running; the wolf keeps chasing.

At the forest’s edge, he barrels past the last few trees and through the fence gate. The low wall wouldn’t stop the wolf, he knows, but he fumbles with the latch anyway. When it’s locked, he chances a look up. The wolf has paused between the trees. It watches Steve across the yard, teeth still bared. He stays still under its scrutiny.

A long minute passes. Then, the wolf takes one threatening step forward. Steve flinches back away from the gate. The wolf lifts its head and—nods, like it’s satisfied somehow. It turns tail and slinks away into the forest, disappearing in the dark.

It takes a long time for Steve to feel anything beyond the drumming of his heart. He settles back into his body in sections. First his hands, nails biting into his palms, then his legs. It’s a slow thaw. When he’s fully cognizant of himself again, he sinks to the ground like someone snipped his strings. His knees hit the cobblestone pathway with a thud. The sweat covering him cools in the crisp night air, leaving his skin clammy and tacky.

Through the slats of the gate, he searches the trees again like they might reveal answers. All they give him is darkness.

It doesn’t make any sense. Bucky had—and then he—Steve can’t find the words even in his own head. Bucky had dragged him to that old picture back when they were still teenagers. What was it called? He can’t remember, had hated the whole thing; horror was never his genre. It hadn’t been Bucky’s either, apparently, with the way he’d as good as hidden his face in Steve’s shoulder for half the show. What a waste of money. They’d had a good laugh about it later.

The man, in the film, he’d turned into… something terrible, a half-beast—a killer. A monster.

The picture had been fiction, a work of fantasy, impossible. It wasn’t real. Bucky isn’t—he couldn’t be—would he?

“No,” Steve whispers. “No.”

He must have dreamt it. That’s all. He hasn’t slept in a while, the forest is messing with his head again—the forest, the war, everything. He’s just confused. He’ll go inside, up the stairs, second door on the left. Bucky will be inside. He’ll be on top of the covers, reading, and when Steve comes in he won’t look up, but that’s okay, because he’ll be right there. The rest of it doesn’t matter so much as long as Steve can see him.

He hauls himself up from the ground and propels himself toward the house’s back door.

There’s laughter coming from the dining room when he enters through the kitchen. It sounds far away in his ears, like he’s underwater.

“Cap!”

“We’re playing cards, come join!”

“Rogers? Hey, Steve!”

He takes the steps two at a time. There’s light coming from under the door. Good, Bucky’s still awake. Steve has to tell him about the horrible dream he just had, has to ask him to slap some sense into him. He knows there’s something wrong between them now, that he went and changed his body to join the war and Bucky can’t seem to forgive him for that—but surely, if he asks right now, Bucky will give. It couldn’t have all been for naught. Steve still loves him, body and soul, no matter what he—

The room is empty. Bucky’s shoes still sit at the foot of the bed, precisely where Steve had last seen them. The ratty paperback hangs over the edge of the windowsill.

Steve closes the door behind him, returns to the window seat, and watches the treeline. Bucky will have to come back eventually. He must, in whatever form—no. Steve shakes his head. It’ll be Bucky that comes back to him, his Bucky. There’s no other version. Is there?

Tucking his knees into his chest, Steve settles in to wait for him.

 

Just after dawn, there’s movement in the shadows. Steve sits up, dragging a hand over his eyes. Something shifts at the trees’ edge again. Then, out of the dark, Bucky staggers forward. He pauses to lean against a tree, and even from the window, Steve can see his chest heaving. He’s naked, too, his long limbs winter-white in the soft morning sunshine.

Bucky stands straighter, looking up. He meets Steve’s eye through the glass. His face doesn’t change, like he’s entirely unsurprised to find Steve watching him, waiting for him. Bucky blinks slowly, once, twice. Then, he lifts his chin, jaw tight. He unwraps one arm from where they’d been wound around his own middle, like he’s trying to hold himself together, and raises his hand. He gives a jerky wave.

Steve tumbles off the windowsill. Moving silently through the sleeping house, he’s outside in seconds, on the path, walking toward him. Bucky moves to meet him. Close now, with only the gate between them, Steve can see just how haggard he looks. Like he always does, on a bad morning, the ones where Steve has to go rouse him in his tent. Bruisy shadows under bloodshot eyes, body coated in a fine layer of dirt, face colorless and grim.

“Bucky,” Steve starts, “you—”

“Can you save it till I have some pants on, at least?” Bucky rasps. He starts toward the gate, but Steve reaches out to grip it tightly. Bucky stops, caught short; his mouth forms a tight line. “Oh. Sure, that’s fine, Steve. I get it.”

He nods at nothing in particular, then looks over his shoulder at the forest. He turns back to it, turns his back on Steve. Steve’s brain lurches to keep up—his body, too, as he unlatches the gate and darts after him.

“Buck, wait!”

Bucky’s stills and stiffens, but doesn’t turn around. “What?”

“Can I—can we at least—”

“Ask the damn question, Steve. Jesus.”

But Steve can’t figure out the way to say it, how to ask. He hangs his head, hands flexing into fists at his sides.

Bucky sighs, muted. “Come on, then. If you’re willing.”

Steve looks up to see Bucky half-turned toward him again. His face is stony—hard, cold, like he’s intentionally walling himself off. He nods at the forest, then spins and stalks off into its gloom without another word or a backward glance. Steve stumbles after him.

Once the house has disappeared behind them, Steve remembers that Bucky has no clothes on. It’s not that he’s uncomfortable with it—they’ve seen each other naked countless times by now—but it’s a chilly morning. He pauses on the trail to start undoing the buttons of his shirt.

It takes a few paces for Bucky to notice he’s stopped. He looks over his shoulder, frowning. “What are you doing?”

“Here,” Steve says, shrugging out of his shirt and passing it over. Left in his undershirt, he keeps his face turned to the ground for some reason he can’t think of. Bucky takes the shirt. His fingers leave smears of dirt when he does up the buttons. It hangs loose over his body, the tail only just long enough to cover him.

He looks a little like Steve must have, parading around the apartment in Bucky’s too-big button-down. Steve’s heart pangs at the sight.

“Thanks,” Bucky murmurs.

“You want anything else?” He gestures at the rest of his clothes.

“Don’t think your shoes would fit me, pal.”

Bucky keeps walking up the path, deeper into the woods. Steve follows after him.

“What happened to your clothes, anyway?” Steve asks.

“Do you not—” Bucky swallows. “You were there.”

“I thought maybe I’d—that that might’ve been a dream.”

Bucky laughs then, sudden and sharp. There’s no real humor behind it. “Christ. A nightmare, maybe. Wouldn’t that be nice? Call you crazy and be done with it.”

“So I’m… not, then.”

“Debatable,” Bucky says. “But—no. You saw me.”

“What did I see, exactly?” Steve asks. He’s still hanging off a cliff’s edge here, hoping Bucky will pull him away from it somehow. But Bucky doesn’t answer, just cuts him a dark look. “I’m just trying to make sense of all this, Bucky. Forgive me for not being able to just—”

He cuts off with a huff, gesturing roughly at his own head.

They’ve reached the clearing again. Bucky strides ahead toward the well, laying his hands on the edge like he’s leaning over to peer into its depths. He toes at his clothes, torn to pieces, with one bare foot. The slope of his shoulders seems—defiant, for an instant. But then they sag as he glances back at Steve, who dawdles in the shadow of the trees. What happens, when he steps out of the dark?

“What…” Bucky starts. “How much did you see?”

“You were there,” Steve echoes faintly.

He expects an eyeroll, but Bucky just tucks in on himself. “I don’t—remember it so well.”

Steve’s brow raises.

“The—when I—when it happens, things get real fuzzy.”

“Oh,” Steve breathes, punched out.

“I don’t remember the in-between much, either.” He says it to the ground, and the way his face twists tells Steve it costs him a great deal to admit it.

“You don’t?”

Bucky shakes his head. “No.”

Steve inhales deeply, then steers them back to the original point. “I saw you—turn into… and then—you, well, chased me.”

“Fuck,” Bucky gasps. He jerks his head up, wide eyes roving over Steve. “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” Steve says quickly. “No, you stopped once I was behind the gate again.”

Bucky drags his hands over his face, like he’s rubbing something out. “Good,” he mutters. “That’s where you ought to have been the whole time.”

“How long did you think you could keep it hidden?”

“I don’t know,” Bucky says. “Been doing alright so far.”

“You should have told me.”

“What would you have said? Hell, I thought I was crazy for a while.” He leans back against the well, hands wrapping around the stone ledge behind him. His face stays turned down, avoidant. “It was—selfish, too, but I couldn’t think of it. You here without me.”

Steve’s breath hitches, oddly hopeful. Bucky straightens up from the wall, stalk-straight again, and meets Steve’s eye.

“So what’s it gonna be then?” he asks. “Blue ticket? I won’t blame you. It’s what you ought to do.”

Steve frowns. “What?”

“Court martial? Don’t know what kind of laws there are, but I suppose you could make something up. Reckless endangerment? That’s close enough, anyway.”

The puzzle has started to fit together, but whether out of disbelief or denial, Steve feels himself rejecting the picture it makes. The jumbled mess of everything almost made more sense.

Almost. Some quiet, determined part of him continues slotting the edges together. They fit. But Bucky’s not making any sense.

“What are you saying?”

Bucky gives him an exasperated look. It’s over the top, trying to mask the tightness around his eyes. “Come on, honey. Don’t let any of that cloud your judgment.”

“Any of what?”

“Your—fondness, for me. There’s no place for it right now.”

“My _fondness_ for you?” Steve sputters. “Is that what we’re calling it, these days?”

“Don’t start that shit. I’m sorry for it, alright? But this isn’t about that.”

“You want me to send you home?”

“I—wouldn’t go back, there.”

“Why not? If you were out, why wouldn’t you? Your ma, and your sisters…”

Bucky’s jaw locks tight, and in the instant before he looks away again, Steve sees agony in his eyes. “Just send me away, Steve. You know it’s what’s right. Christ knows you’re always on about that.”

It’s a blow meant to redirect; Steve weathers it and pushes past. “Why?”

“Why _what?”_

“Why should I discharge you? On what grounds?”

“Jesus fucking Christ, I know your skull’s as thick as a goddamn dictionary, but are you really so obtuse?” Bucky shouts. Birds scatter from the trees. “Because I _lied._ Because I put the whole unit in danger by lying. Because I was stupid, and selfish. Because I could’ve killed any one of you at any point in the months I’ve been hiding. Because I—because—”

But whatever comes next never makes it out of his mouth. He breaks off, breath shaking out of him like it hurts. Inside a moment, his rigid stance crumples in on itself. Steve steps out of the trees, unable to stop himself, unsure of why he would want to. Bucky recoils and tries to dodge him, but Steve keeps coming till he’s blocking his path.

“Because you what?” Steve offers the answer to him softly. “Because you’re, what, some kind of monster?”

Bucky’s jaw snaps shut around a rocky inhale. He works hard to conceal, but Steve can see it plain in his watery eyes: he’s struck a nerve. Bucky plants his bare feet in the dirt and squares himself to Steve, like he’s daring him to say it again, but the twitch in his jaw belies his posture. He’s scared.

“Yes,” Bucky says.

With that word, the whole pictures swims into focus. Steve sees it now—the subterfuge, pretending to be ill, driving Steve away, the blood, all of it, the _guilt_ that’s got him locked up so tight right now. Jesus Christ, if it doesn’t make goddamned _sense._

Logically, Steve knows he should be fearful—that he ought to agree with Bucky, send him away, get him off the front. But with Bucky in front of him, hardly able to stand he’s so tired, looking every bit like he’s been fighting not one, but two wars—all Steve feels is a profound ache in his heart. It hurts so much he shudders with it.

“Bucky,” Steve says, “can I ask you something?”

Bucky stares him down, neither accepting nor denying his request.

“What did you think, when you first saw me like this?” Steve gestures at his body, the breadth that’s still so strange to him some mornings.

“Why are you asking me that?”

“Can you just answer me, please?”

Bucky’s scowl softens into a thoughtful line. “You were still you. It’s been an—adjustment, but you’re not changed so much.” His eyes fall to Steve’s chest, and he taps against his own heart. “Still the same where it counts the most. Minus the palpitations, I guess, and good fucking riddance”

A wave of relief, of gratitude and conviction, bowls Steve over like he’s a little kid swimming at high tide.

“I thought you thought that I was the monster,” he says.

Bucky’s face folds, then breaks open with awful realization. _“Steve_ , oh—no, I would never. You know that, don’t you?”

“I do now.”

“I never meant you to take it that way. I was just trying—”

“To protect me, yeah. I see that now.” Steve nods, mostly to himself. His eyes on Bucky’s, he takes a step closer, reaching up a hand—

Bucky knocks it away before Steve can touch him. “It doesn’t change anything. You knowing.”

“Why not?”

“Because I could still hurt you, Steve! I could tear you to shreds next time. If you hadn’t run fast enough—”

“You weren’t trying to hurt me,” Steve interrupts.

Bucky’s eyes flash. “And how do you know that?”

“You just wanted me back across the fence, like you said.” Steve shrugs, but Bucky still glowers at him, disbelieving. Steve grasps for something that might convince him. “You said you don’t remember much when you’re… when you’re the wolf.”

Bucky’s mouth twists. “I remember some.”

“Do you remember the night you sat with me on watch? That was you, wasn’t it?”

“I—guess it must have been, I don’t know. Do _you_ remember those soldiers?”

How could he forget them? “Of course.”

“That was me. I did that.”

“You were only doing your job.”

“My _job_ is to shoot people, not maim them, Steve!”

“You were protecting us, Buck.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“Is it?”

Bucky falls silent, steaming with directionless anger. He’s been sitting in this guilt for a long time; Steve’s not so naive to think that he can bring him out of it in one conversation. But he’ll try, at least, to make him see that there’s something beyond it.

“What did you tell me, not two minutes ago?”

Bucky starts and then ducks his head, like he knows he’s been walked into a trap here.  Steve waits for him to say it, but he just chews on his lip.

“Still the same where it counts the most.” Steve steps into his space again, reaching forward to touch gentle fingertips to the collar of Bucky’s shirt. “It’s still you, even in that body. Can’t you see that?”

Bucky reaches up to grab Steve’s hand, but this time, rather than pushing him away, he wraps his fingers around Steve’s.

“You really aren’t scared of me?” Bucky asks, barely a whisper.

“No more than I’ve ever been.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow. “Yes, you do.”

“Maybe so.” A helpless smile tugs at one side of Steve’s mouth. “Can’t help it. Never could.”

“You’re reckless, and it’s going to get you killed one day,” Bucky says, but his eyes are warmer now.

“Maybe so.”

Steve shrugs, and Bucky rolls his eyes, his fingers tightening around Steve’s. Steve brushes his thumb over Bucky’s knuckles, his chest feeling looser and tighter all at once somehow. As Bucky watches the gesture with careful eyes, Steve wonders if he noticed that Steve’s hands are still the same size. He’d always had big ones, for his little body; now they fit.

“Bucky?” Steve murmurs; Bucky’s eyes flicker up. “Can I—would it be alright if I held you? Just for a minute. We need to head back soon, but I…”

His free hand flexes uselessly, dangling by his side. Bucky reaches out for it, drawing it around his shoulders as he steps toward Steve. Their hands disentangle and Steve wraps his arms around him, still the same Bucky to him. The angle’s different now—Bucky loops his arms around Steve’s waist, Steve’s arms around his shoulders—but the feeling isn’t. It still settles over Steve’s heart, familiar and warm, like spring sunlight.

With all that’s changed, still changing—the shape of the world, the shapes of their bodies—to have that feeling remain constant is more than Steve would’ve dared to ask for. He’d thought they had lost it for good. Steve inhales the smell of him, earthier and sharp now, like an evergreen.

Bucky shudders against him, burying his face in Steve’s broad chest. His hands run up and down Steve’s back, the knobs of his spine and the planes of his shoulder blades—a cartographer, mapping him anew.

“You know I love you, too, right?” Bucky says.

“I know, Buck. I do.” Still feels good to hear it out loud again.

“Don’t know why I thought I could convince you otherwise.”

“Hey, I almost believed it.”

A hard exhale. “I’m sorry.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It should. It does.”

“Just don’t treat me like a stranger again, and we’ll call it square.”

 

Steve half-carries him back to the little country house. They shamble up the stairs and into their shared room without drawing anyone’s attention; thankfully, everyone still seems to be asleep. Bucky collapses as soon as he’s close enough to hit the bed and not the floor. Steve pulls the blankets up around him, strokes his hair back from his face, then takes his windowsill perch again.

He ought to sleep too, he knows, but all he wants right now is to keep watch. He’ll stay awake, and Bucky can sleep. Later, they’ll trade off. He focuses on the rise and fall of Bucky’s chest, breathing deep in his sleep. Bucky doesn’t so much as twitch, his face slack, snoring softly. Not dreaming. Good.

The house starts to wake up—doors opening and closing, floorboards creaking, the kettle whistling in the kitchen. The smell of coffee wafts up the stairs. Steve hears his men talking over breakfast, voices morning subdued. No one bothers to come check if they’re awake. He and Bucky will go down later, when they’re up, when they’re ready.

Bucky does stir, too few hours later. He shifts, brow twitching—and then he’s awake, sitting up and alert. Wide blue eyes find Steve’s, cast down to the ill-fitting button-up, then back up to Steve. Bucky frowns.

“You’re still here,” he says.

“Did you think I wouldn’t be?” Steve can’t help the break in his voice.

“I—wasn’t sure.”

“I’m not going anywhere, Buck.”

With a quiet exhale, Bucky sinks back down into the bed. He shifts to one side of the mattress. Staring at the ceiling, he pats the open space. “Will you… Come here, then.”

“I don’t know if I’ll fit.”

“Since when did that ever stop you? Try.”

Bucky looks at him sideways, a tilt to his mouth. Steve acquiesces, getting up to go to him. It’s a twin size mattress, there’s no way—but Bucky twists and slings an arm and a leg overtop of Steve, and suddenly, it works. They fit, by some small miracle. The mattress creaks as Steve gets comfortable. Bucky’s hair tickles at his cheek.

Bucky still looks like shit—probably will till he cleans himself up, gets some breakfast and a better night’s sleep. Maybe even then.

“How’d this happen to you?” Steve whispers.

“Did you know the Nazis have a fascination with the occult?”

“No.”

“Turns out it’s not just a fascination.”

Steve takes a slow breath, nodding, trying to understand. “While you were a prisoner?”

“Must’ve been. Timeline makes sense, but I don’t remember much.”

“You were pretty out of it when I found you.”

“Yeah.”

They both lie there for a silent minute. Bucky’s thumb rubs circles into Steve’s chest.

“You’re warm,” he murmurs.

Steve smiles. “Yeah, all the time now. Comes in handy.”

“I’d bet.” Bucky pauses, and Steve waits. “You’re really not going to send me away?”

“Do you really want me to?”

“You should.” Steve feels him inhale then let it out, slow and loud. “No, I don’t.”

“Glad we settled it, then, sergeant.”

“Is it settled?”

“For now.”

Bucky nods. Pressing in closer, he tucks his head under Steve’s chin. Steve wraps his arms around him and closes his eyes. For now—for now, this is what matters. Tomorrow, there will be something else. There always is. That’s war. Take what you can get in moments, live your life in flashes between the violence, try to remember what you’re fighting for at all. At least, right now, Steve can hold his reminder in his arms again.

They’ll deal with it, if it becomes a problem. Like Bucky had said, he’d been handling it fairly well so far.

Steve wonders if HYDRA even knows what they’ve done. If they care, if there was any reason for it, or if it’s just another atrocity to tack onto the list.

 

“Close quarters, here,” Bucky says. He waves a hand at the tightly packed trees. There’s hardly room to walk between them without running into a spindly trunk. Places to pitch tents will be hard to come by. It’ll be a wonder if they catch sight of the full moon at all.

“Yeah,” Steve says. “We could—share, if we have to.”

“You sure that’s okay?”

“Yeah.” Steve looks left to find Bucky already watching him, shoulders stiff, but his eyes are hesitant. With a smile, Steve says more confidently, “Yes, I am, Bucky. We’ll share.”

Bucky doesn’t quite return his smile, but he nods and says, “I’ll get us set up.”

Just before sunset, Steve feigns a wide yawn, grumbling about how exhausted he is. Bucky mutters something about how if he doesn’t fall asleep before Steve, he’ll never sleep at all, on account of the chainsaw snoring. He digs an elbow into Steve’s ribs. Steve chuckles and slings an arm around his shoulders, leading him toward the tent. He can already feel the slight shake of Bucky’s muscles.

It’s cold out, so Steve just sheds his shoes before tucking into the sleeping bag. Bucky doesn’t say anything as he strips out of his clothes methodically, clinically. Steve tries not to stare as he folds everything into a neat pile—but it’s Bucky. He always was bad about looking away from him.

“Just let it happen,” Bucky mutters, so quiet Steve’s not sure it’s for him. But he lifts his head and stares Steve down, eyes sharp. “Don’t try to … help, or anything else stupid. And if I try to—”

“You won’t—”

“Shut the hell _up._ If I try to hurt you, you know what to do.”

Roughly, eyes still boring into Steve’s, Bucky forces the pistol into Steve’s hands. Steve sets it down on top of Bucky’s folded clothes just as harshly. That’s where it will stay, till the morning, till Bucky needs it and his pants again. Steve certainly won’t need it tonight.

“What do I always say to you?” Bucky grumbles, but he’s lying down on his bag. His back turned now, Steve’s sure he’s mostly complaining to himself. It’s good to hear that again, even if it’s at his own expense. “Arrogant clod, think you know everything. Jesus Christ.”

Steve laughs softly and zips his bag up. The tent is silent for a long while, the shadows over its walls growing longer, then dimming to nothingness as the light fades.

“Don’t watch me,” Bucky grinds out, through what sounds like gritted teeth.

The panting breaths come first, the whining too. The first _crack_ of shifting bone makes Steve flinch. He longs to reach out, to try to help him through it somehow, but Bucky’d told him—don’t. So he doesn’t. The sound of muscle twisting and stretching makes his stomach turn, but he stays still as a board. Bucky doesn’t even scream.

In a matter of minutes, it’s done. The tent falls quiet again, save for a muted snuffling. Steve rolls over. It’s dark in the tent, but he can see fine in the dark now, so it’s easy to make out the wolf’s shape. It... _he_ sits, eyes glowing blue despite the lack of light. Steve had thought, maybe, he might be scared. That he wouldn’t be able to reconcile it in his head, and all he’d feel would be fear coupled with guilt.

But there’s something about the wolf’s posture that’s so distinctly _Bucky_ that Steve’s heart lurches in his chest. Like it knows, the wolf tilts his head to the side, his eyes flashing.

Steve smiles and reaches a hand out tentatively. The wolf watches him—with trepidation or exasperation, Steve can’t tell—but then shuffles forward enough to shove his nose against Steve’s palm. It’s wet and cold, but then Steve runs his hand over the wolf’s head. It presses into the touch, so Steve pets him again, from the top of his head to his shoulders. His brown fur is thick and smooth.

After a while, Steve yawns again—real this time, covering it with one hand. The wolf whines and moves out of range.

“Hey, wait, no.” Steve tries to scramble after him, but the wolf doesn’t leave like Steve had thought he would. Instead, he paws at the sleeping bag, turns in a neat circle, then lies down against Steve’s legs. Head still lifted, he turns watchful eyes on Steve’s face. He chuffs, low in his chest, and Steve recognizes the sound for what it is: a reprimand.

“Fine, I’ll go to sleep if you do,” Steve says, closing his eyes. He feels the wolf drape its head over his hip. Even through the bag, his warmth seeps into Steve, a comfort. Steve lies his hand over the wolf’s head, thumbing at his velvety ears till he drifts off to sleep.

In the morning, he wakes feeling warmer than he has in months. He can feel the frigid air against his exposed face, but a heavy, warm weight fills his chest. Or—as he wakes properly—lies overtop of it. Bucky, naked and asleep, has his head pillowed on Steve’s chest. Their legs tangle together. Bucky’s hand is fisted in the sleeping bag over Steve’s ribs.

Steve strokes his back. The skin is hot under his hand, flushed, and there’s a slight sheen of sweat covering him. But he breathes deeply, even snoring softly. Threading his hand through the hair at the base of Bucky’s skull, Steve waits. The breeze whistles tunelessly through the trees.

Bucky stirs eventually. He twitches, sighing softly, and smacks his lips together. There’s no sudden jolt; he comes to like he should, slow and natural.

“Morning,” Steve murmurs.

Bucky lifts his head. He finds Steve’s face, eyes narrowing. “Hey.”

Telegraphing his movements, Steve reaches up to cup his jaw, thumb tracing the circles under his eyes. They’re not so bad this morning. He’s still pale, but he doesn’t look so bone-deep tired the way he usually does. The way he almost always does, nowadays. His eyes slip closed, like he’s enjoying the feel of Steve’s hands on him.

“How are you?” Steve asks.

“Peachy keen, thanks.”

“Bucky.”

“I’m fine, Steve.” Bucky flashes him half a crooked smile. “Honest. I’m … I feel alright this morning.”

“Guess I was right then, huh?”

“Don’t sound so smug about it.” With a smack to the chest, Bucky rolls up till he’s sitting. He watches Steve for a beat, mouth pursed, then sticks out a hand. Steve takes it, letting Bucky pull him up and into Bucky’s space. They’re a hair's breadth away.

“I should get dressed now,” Bucky says, even as his hand traces up Steve’s arm, finds his shoulder, grips at the junction between it and Steve’s neck. His fingers flex over the tendon.

Steve’s eyes flicker down to his mouth. “Yeah.”

“Moving out soon. Plus it’s cold.”

“Is it? I hadn’t noticed.”

With a fond sigh, Bucky drags Steve forward till their lip meet. It feels the same as it ever did, to kiss him again. His mouth—the whole of him—is so right and _good._ He always has been. If Steve deserves this from him, then he must be good too.

Bucky pulls back, just a fraction, and Steve can feel his smile against his lips. Outside the tent, the birds chirrup a cheerful morning song.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The film Steve remembers seeing with Bucky is _Werewolf of London_ , released in 1935. It was the first mainstream film to feature a werewolf.
> 
> Prompt: Canon-divergent: When Bucky is captured by Hydra, he is changed into something /else/ - be it from gene-splicing, magical tampering, some supernatural contagion, etc. From his POV and/or Steve's post-rescue: a story with a focus on characters' reactions to the changes/body horror (possibly including a transformation scene?), integrating themes of Bucky feeling like a literal monster, and ultimately Steve's acceptance/comfort.
> 
> Support this work by reblogging the [masterpost](http://bride-ofquiet.tumblr.com/post/166961844018/sleep-well-beast-for-the-stucky-scary-bang-2017) on tumblr, and be sure to check out the rest of the Scary Bang collection!


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